


We don't have to fix each other (come over)

by dejas



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 01:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dejas/pseuds/dejas
Summary: “I’m moving to California.” Tyson exhales after he says it, like an entire weight is lifted off of his shoulders. Which, is great, Dante guesses, but it doesn’t do him any good.( Or Dante and Tyson get married at a young age and grow apart, mutually separating. A surprise visit and a road trip just may be what saves them. )
Relationships: Dante Fabbro/Tyson Jost
Comments: 20
Kudos: 62
Collections: Hockey Big Bang (2019)





	We don't have to fix each other (come over)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you found this upon googling, exit immediately. This is a complete work of fiction and in no way am I implying that anything written in here is true. Stories are not meant to be circulated or shared with those written in them.
> 
> Year two of Hockey Big Bang is finished. Thank you to everyone who helped me get this done and encouraged me along the way. Especially a big thanks to ki for being patient when this took a long longer to finish when it should have.
> 
> That being said, please do yourself a favor and listen to the accompanying podfic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/21290864)!

**12:2018**

Dante runs his finger over the cold metal band that’s been wrapped around his ring finger for the last year and a half. When he removes it, there’s a small indent that stays for a few hours, silently reminding him— taunting him of his failed past. Once it fades, he runs his fingertips over the skin, fingers smooth and void of any sign of what once was.

Touching it— playing with it, blindly— is a learned act that he finds himself slowly forgetting over time.

If only forgetting _him_ were that easy.

Somehow, as hard as it is, he just about thinks he can.

..

There’s no battle over what both of them know is just stuff. Dante doesn’t own much, just some clothes, a few books and a beat up old guitar that Tyson discovered for him at a thrift store when they were young— _younger_, he has to remind himself— they're still so, _so_ young.

He thinks about leaving most things behind— the guitar, especially— because when he looks at it, Tyson is all he sees. When he strums a chord, Tyson is all he hears. It isn’t Tyson. It’s a stupid guitar. So why, Dante wonders, when he lifts it by the neck and frowns, noticing a string has lost its slack, is Tyson all he _feels_ in its presence.

Dante takes the guitar— because it’s his— because Tyson leaves it leaning against the wall amongst the rest of his belongings— because he knows Tyson doesn’t want the memories, either. In the end, Dante decides he’ll put it away in the back of the closet, letting it disappear into the darkness. He can’t think about what he can’t see.

Everything gets shoved into the trunk of his car temporarily, at least until he can figure out where he’s going. Dante doesn’t want to move back home, much to his mother’s pleading. It feels as if he’s returning a failure, having left the nest only to crash there again, broken— needing his mother to bandage his wounds. He knows she doesn’t see him as a failure— she’d be happy to have him. Still, returning there with his tail between his legs doesn’t make it hurt any less.

..

**12:2019**

“You’ll never guess who moved back into town,” Mat says, tapping his feet against the doorframe so not to track snow inside. It’s pretty damn blunt, knocking the wind from Dante on the spot.

“What?” Dante thinks he knows and knows he doesn’t want to know much more. He shrugs, hoping Mat doesn’t tell him. It’s easier to pretend his past was something he’d made up.

Mat shrugs, as if Tyson reappearing isn’t the biggest of deals. “Sophia didn’t tell you?”

“How long?”

Mat laughs as if there’s something funny about the situation. “At least five days.”

And it stings, then, because not only does Mat, who’s dangerously close to claiming the title of _worst-best friend of the year_, keep this secret from him for nearly an entire week, but his very own sister was in on it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dante shrugs because it _doesn’t_. Even if he wanted to catch the slightest glimpse of Tyson, he knows it’s best for his well-being if he forgets Mat’s even brought him up. “He stopped answering my texts after a while so.” 

“I can kick his ass if you want,” Mat offers.

Dante pales because no, he doesn’t want that. It wasn’t a violent breakup, nor does it need to turn that way now. They, like many, simply drifted. “No, no.”

“Okay,” Mat says, laughing a little. “Josty’s not a fighter.”

“Jesus, Mat.” Dante shakes his head. “And you are?”

Mat hardly looks offended. “Fair.”

Dante nods, shifting uncomfortably. He’ll be happy when they move onto another subject— one that doesn’t squeeze his heart like a vice grip. He thinks that maybe that’s where they’re headed when Mat opens his mouth to speak, only to find that he’s very, very wrong. 

“You should talk to him, though.” Mat doesn’t seem to be giving up. He’s trying to be helpful, Dante knows, but Mat _has_ to know it’s a sore subject. Then again, Mat’s never been married.

“And say what? Hey, I know we got married at eighteen and then divorced a year later, but is it cool if we catch up, grab a coffee or something?” Dante rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his heart clenches, because coffee would be… okay, if he were able to stomach seeing Tyson, that is.

Mat shrugs. “Yeah, why not? We all make mistakes, right?”

Back then, caught up in that moment it wasn’t— even now, when the pain resurfaces— when it should easily feel like one of the biggest mistakes of his life, it doesn’t. Dante struggles to wish it all away.

“What’s a mistake,” Dante says, tired of speaking about this, “is whatever that is you’re growing on your face.”

“Wow.” Mat gives his best offended look, running a hand over his chin. It’s a bit patchy, to be fair, though Mat doesn’t seem all that phased by Dante’s attempt at a chirp. “We’re not all born hairy like you, bro.”

It’s an insult he’ll take because it’s a break from the repetitive parroting of Mat’s attempts to fix things he knows nothing about. If he’s made a list of every little attempt at repairing things Mat’s made, he’s sure it would be a mile long by now. Still, he knows Mat won’t give up. Especially not with Tyson in an attainable radius. 

“Look, I would, but it’s complicated.” Dante briefly considers shaking some sense into him, knowing the point would be missed by miles. Mat means well, he’s just, well, kind of an idiot. “That ship sailed, man.”

He pictures Tyson on a boat, hand out, waving. It’s his smiling, satisfied face that fades as he disappears into a haze that hurts the most. Why his brain does these things… he’ll never know. It isn’t like Tyson _actually_ left on a boat. There was no smiling— no waving.

Everything just was until one day… it wasn’t.

Dante thinks about how the boat scenario, while slightly unrealistic, may have sucked _a lot_, but there would have been some logic around it, likely. It wouldn’t have crushed his heart in the gut-wrenching way reality did. He wouldn’t have witnessed Tyson breaking down, apologizing to him over and over while unable to touch him. He wouldn’t have woken up one day with a tear-stained pillow and a pile of clothing at the end of his childhood bed.

Tyson would be happy somewhere warm— a beach, maybe. In _that_ scenario he’d come back. Eventually.

..

**6:2017**

“Do you want to get married?” Tyson laughs, buttoning up his shirt, tie hung over his shoulder while attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in the cotton. Dante knows it’s not going to work. They’ve spent most of the day together, rolling around in bed, not thinking about the repercussions of doing so on top of their dress clothes. 

“Like, someday?” Dante asks, unsuccessfully fixing his own tie. He’s going to need a little help and judging by Tyson’s smile, knows he’ll get it eventually. It’s a little frustrating, especially embarrassing when he realizes that If he can’t figure out how to tie a tie by eighteen, then God knows how he’s supposed to make someone a decent husband. 

“Like right now.” Tyson finishes with his own tie, shaking his head at Dante’s crooked, wrinkled tie. He’s gentle when he tugs on the silk, careful in re-looping it around the correct way until it lies flat against his shirt. “It could be fun.”

“Fun,” Dante repeats with a laugh. It’s definitely up there as one of the most ridiculous things he’s heard Tyson suggest— _ever_— which says a lot with how well he knows Tyson. He considers a hard no because again, _eighteen_, but then Tyson smiles again, eyes shining.

Dante knows he can say no. He’s fully capable.

He just… doesn’t.

And maybe it’s stupid to elope at eighteen— to think meaningful, lasting relationships can be formed when everything else in their lives is so unknown— but then Tyson pulls on his suit coat, smiles and Dante suddenly feels like maybe they _are _grown enough to take such a leap— because life’s short, Tyson’s moving in close and he’ll be damned if he lets who he’s pretty sure is his soulmate slip through his fingers that easily.

..

There’s nothing romantic about a Motel 6 no matter which way it’s spun. It’s just the closest place within stumbling distance that’ll allow them to take up vacancy and when you’re young, dumb and in love… Dante supposes it’ll do. He slides the keycard into the door, apologizing before the door is even fully open.

“It’s fine,” Tyson reassures, squeezing Dante’s arm. “We’re _married_. We have forever to go to better hotels.”

It’s not the point, Dante thinks, when they step inside a room that looks straight out of the 70s. Dante’s not well-versed on honeymoons, if this even is one, but he’d think if given the choice, they’d have picked somewhere better with white sand and a real beach.

“_We’re_ _married_,” Tyson repeats, laughing, arms out and spinning around the room when Dante shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t stop laughing until he stops and Dante’s hand steadies him at the hip. “My mom’s going to kill us.”

“Not if mine does first,” Dante says softly, smiling nonetheless. 

Tyson turns himself in, warm against Dante’s side. It’s a sense of comfort that Dante’s learned over time, though one that feels different now that he knows the weight behind it all. Marriage, Dante knows, is no joke and he’s sure the lecture will come in due time. He forgets all about the potential repercussions when Tyson plants a kiss on his cheek.

“We skipped our own reception.” Tyson grins, his arms wrapping around Dante’s waist until he pulls back, shifting enough to rest his hands over his hips. “No dancing, no fun.”

Dante steps in and hums the familiar tune, voice low when he sings the words, “_hey, hey baby, I wanna know…_”

“You’re dumb.” Tyson laughs, interrupting, mouth hovering over Dante’s in what’s almost a kiss, until Dante pulls back, incredulous.

“Chirping me?” Dante laughs, too, soft like his smile. “And on our wedding night?”

Tyson answers, sort of, with a small noise that goes muffled when it turns into a kiss, hands coming up to cup Dante’s face. Dante expects another chirp when Tyson pulls back, his sigh far too soft, smile curling when his eyes open slowly. 

“Well?” Dante turns his head slightly, Tyson’s palm warm against his cheek. They’re red, he knows, and expects to be called out for being far too soft in the moment.

“I love you.” Turns out Tyson’s feeling just as soft.

..

Tyson’s in the bathroom when Dante thinks to call Mat. It’s probably not the most appropriate thing to do in the midst of his spontaneous wedding turned sort-of honeymoon but he’s far too elated to not share the news.

“Mat,” Dante laughs into the receiver, excited and breathy. “You’ll never guess what I did.”

“Finally got laid?” Mat, of course, laughs high and loud at his own pretty unfunny, definitely uncreative joke.

“Yeah.” Dante rolls his eyes, despite knowing all too well Mat doesn’t see it. He hopes, at the least, his tone is dripping with enough sarcasm to make up for it. “Your mom says hi.”

“Disgusting, man,” Mat says. He isn’t laughing anymore. “What did you do, elope or something?”

“Uh.” Dante clears his throat. He goes to lower the phone, to turn to Tyson, but then Tyson’s right there, arms snaking around his waist, laughing into his other ear with a very clear _did he guess?_ That’s likely to give it all away.

Mat laughs again, harder this time, and by the way he says _Jesus, Fabbs_— he must have.

..

“What do married people do?” Tyson yawns, looking up from his spot against Dante’s chest. Hair a mess, eyes tired, he can’t help but smile. It’s a look Dante’s learned to love.

“This?” Dante motions around them, their scattered clothes and room as a whole. He’s sure there’s more to marriage than post-sex cuddling, but they’ve yet to figure that out.

Tyson hums, seemingly understanding, leaning up to press a kiss to Dante’s chin. “I’m not an expert or anything, but we’ve _been_ doing this.”

“Yeah,” Dante says, shifting the best he can beneath Tyson’s solid weight until he’s comfortable again. “But this time it’s different. For better or for worse.”

“It’s _always_ better.” Tyson grins, fingertips pressing into Dante’s sides.

Dante laughs softly, squirming. His thoughts, less funny and timing— he knows— being pretty terrible. “But what if it _isn’t_?”

“If it’s… worse?” Tyson stops, face dropping, palms pressed to Dante’s chest.

“I mean, it can’t always be perfect, can it?” Dante takes Tyson’s hands, fingers intertwining. The soft squeeze that Tyson gives tells him that things are okay— _will_ be okay.

“It’s perfect now.” Tyson turns Dante’s hands over in his. “Let’s focus on that.”

“I’m always focused,” Dante promises, going quiet. He doesn’t mean to self-sabotage, it just falls into his lap a little too naturally.

Tyson doesn’t say much to that, Dante knowing it’s typical Tyson, taking Dante’s penchant for turning something so bright a little dark now and again. He brushes Dante’s hand, squeezes and that seems to be enough to shift him back into a better light.

“Where are we going to live?” Dante hasn’t thought about it.

“In a _house_, Dante,” Tyson says, as if it’s that simple. “With a nice big porch.”

“And a white picket fence. Maybe we’ll even get a dog.” Dante doesn’t mean to sound facetious and rebounds quickly when he notices Tyson’s frown. “We can’t just buy a house, Tys. Not right away.”

“Someday.” Tyson smiles and everything feels dreamlike. “And when it’s cold, we’ll travel south.”

“We’re not geese, Tys.” Dante laughs, though it’s a nice thought. “But what were you thinking? Mexico?”

“Santa Monica maybe,” Tyson says through his grin. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“Specific, but okay,” Dante confirms with a nod. “Then that’s where I’ll take you someday.”

Tyson’s smile remains long after he’s cuddled against Dante’s side. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he repeats, pressing a kiss to Tyson’s hair.

..

**12:2019**

December, it turns out, is a little bit problematic for Dante. It now starts off with jarring memories that awaken his soul only to leave his heart heavy and crushed beneath the weight of his past.

He tries not to picture Tyson’s pink, wind-bitten nose that he pressed a kiss to after a really stupid snowball fight. Dante had forgotten a coat that morning and when he woke up the next day with a cold, Tyson, grinning, proclaimed he won. It would have been annoying had Tyson not then, as a good husband would, bundled Dante up beside the fireplace and presented him with some chicken noodle soup, completely unprompted.

To this day, though Dante will deny it, he’s sure it wasn’t the soup that cured him— it was Tyson, never once leaving his side— Tyson, warming him up inside and out, loving him and not letting go until the tired left his eyes.

Without Tyson, Dante is so, _so_ tired.

He also tries not to think about _last_ year, when Tyson doesn’t look at him for three full days— how when he finally does, his eyes are tired and full of tears. Tyson doesn’t say much, he doesn’t have to. It was never his words that haunted Dante, anyway— it was his touch— that final long and lingering kiss that tore Dante’s heart in two— that does it every time. Sometimes, when he’s on the edge of waking, body only half conscious, he can almost feel the ghost of Tyson’s hand caressing his cheek and the warmth of his lips as they press against his. 

It’s a really shitty way to wake up.

Anyway, December kind of sucks, is what Dante’s taking away from all of this. It’s worse when, after their family dinner, his mother prompts him to get out his guitar because _it’s been awhile and music is good for the soul_.

His sister, Gina, gives him a sympathetic look, but in the end his mother wins out. Dante’s always been pretty bad at saying no to those he loves.

It’s lucky that his room itself doesn’t hold too many memories of Tyson, because Tyson’s been there, but more often than not it was their old, shared apartment that housed most of what Dante’s trying to forget. He reached into the back of his closet, guitar strings cold as he grips the neck and is certain he holds his breath as he brings it out into the daylight.

_I can do this_, he tells himself, running a finger over the body that’s gone dull and slightly dusty. He plucks one string then gives it a strum— flat. It needs a cleaning and a tuning, two things he doesn’t think he has the energy for.

Still, he brings it downstairs, shrugging when his father mentions how it’s _seen better days_. Dante doesn’t say so, but he’s also seen better days. He wonders if the guitar, worn and dusty is a metaphor— that he, too, needs to dust himself off and move forward. He grabs an old rag and wipes the guitar down, wishing it were that easy.

“I don’t know what to play,” Dante says, tightening and loosening strings until it sounds just right. It’s been awhile since he’s played, every song reminding him of Tyson. Even the sad ones— the ones he’d played when he was desperate to feel _anything_— stir up memories. So many songs remind him of the end, when music helped him cope while Tyson began to slip from his grasp.

In the end, he lets his muscle memory decide, because there’s no way he’s getting out of this one. His family can be loud and quite pushy and he knows better than to say no— not because he’s terrible at it— because he doesn’t want to let them down. He finds it easier to force a smile and strum a few chords of some Vance Joy that tugs at his heart than to argue around Christmas anyway.

..

It’s the 21st when Dante trades in his guitar for a pair of ice skates. He thinks he must be out of his mind when he makes it to Robson Square— it’s _always _packed at the end of December. Still, with a sigh, Dante laces up his skates. Some fresh air would be good for him.

Skating, Dante finds, while typically relaxing, becomes frustrating when he’s forced to weave in and out of children and slower skaters. It’s not at the fault of the children who are there to play and laugh. Dante used to laugh here, too, when he was much smaller. He quickly moved on to pond hockey, preferring the fresh, untouched ice that was reserved for him and his friends. He thinks about another get together— a rematch and reunions of some sorts— a thought he quickly squashes. He’s not ready to answer all of the questions— to explain over and over again why everyone’s invited… _except_ Tyson.

_Don’t do this now_, Dante tells himself, rolling his eyes and nearly skating directly into a kid who cuts in front of him. His heart jumps twice— first when he nearly falls, catching himself— second when another, larger body skates by, stopping him dead in his tracks.

The brown curls are the first thing to catch his eye, countless nights spent running his fingers through them.

“Tyson?” Dante doesn’t mean to stumble over the one name that’s caused him nothing but pain for months, knowing any interaction is the last thing he’s wanting. It’s just… Tyson skates by and when he turns, ever-so-slightly, their eyes lock and Dante’s stomach tumbles over like it’s the very first time.

“Dante?”

Everything moves slowly, couples parting, skaters slowing when Tyson makes his way back around the circle. Dante backs out of the way, nearly sinking at the edge of the rink, willing himself to stand straight— eyes locked on the target that’s seconds away from destroying him.

“Dante, wait,” Tyson says a second time, closer.

Dante hardly notices that he’s already subconsciously begun to retreat, knuckles white when he grips the edge of the wall. He’s steady on skates— it’s his insides that shake him up, heart hammering and stomach doing acrobatics when Tyson stops in front of him.

“You look good,” Tyson says despite the fact that now that he’s close, eye-contact is just about non-existent.

Dante knows that’s a lie. He runs a hand through his hair, sure there’s bags under his eyes. He doesn’t sleep much these days. Tyson at least looks well-rested. “You too.”

“Yeah,” Tyson says, shifting. “Your sister said you’d be here.”

“You talked to my sister?” Dante raises an eyebrow, making the mental note to question her meddling later. He thought he’d made it clear that whatever this was had ended months ago. It makes his stomach drop, like he’d just went over too steep of a hill with no stopping in sight. “Was it Sophia? She always does this.”

“Don’t be mad at her.” Tyson looks up this time, frowning. “She wasn’t going to tell me.”

Dante wants to roll his eyes because in the end, she _did_, but doesn’t quite feel like making the effort. It’s hard enough to exhale, meet Tyson’s gaze and not fall back into old habits. It’s an absent-minded movement, running the pad of his thumb along the underside of his ring finger. There’s nothing there this time. Not anymore. “Oh.”

“I annoyed the shit out of her,” Tyson says with the faintest of smiles.

A small child laughs in the background, accentuating the very moment in a bit of irony. It’s not _actually _funny when Dante’s certain he’s about to re-live heartbreak.

“So, the usual.” Dante smiles through it, prompting a matching one from Tyson.

“Someone had to do it,” Tyson says, shrugging. “Not everyone is the perfect sibling.”

Dante softens a bit. It’s not like he’s the favorite sibling, just— he’s the youngest, he’s the _baby_ of the family— his sisters have always been a feisty mix of proud and protective. He’s most certain as the youngest, it’s his duty to be annoying. It was an unwritten rule that Dante’s never been good at following. It’s never quite been in his blood. 

“I’m not perfect,” is what Dante settles on, because he _isn’t_ by far. If he were, maybe his story would be different. “No one’s perfect.”

“You were close,” Tyson says, laughing— not because it’s funny— it’s painful for Dante to hear those words spoken— because it’s just what Tyson does in any given situation when showing actual emotions is just too hard to do. Dante knows. He married him.

Dante falls silent. It’s hard to come back with something witty when all he wants to do is guard his aching heart. “That’s not fair,” Dante says, because it really _isn’t_. Not when Tyson’s the one who left.

“It’s not,” Tyson agrees. Dante doesn’t expect that. “I just,” he shrugs, voice quieter. “I thought you should know. In case you like, forgot or something.”

A large pit forms in Dante’s stomach, sending a wave of nausea through him. He can’t do this. Not now. “I have to go,” he mutters quickly, stumbling, nearly face planting when he exits the ice. 

Tyson, thankfully, doesn’t follow.

..

“He’s _here_.” Dante’s hands are shaking— because he’s cold— because Tyson’s back for reasons he isn’t quite sure of yet. He doesn’t wait for Mat to let him in. He just steps past him, shivering when the last bit of cold runs bone deep.

“Take it you called him?” Mat frowns sympathetically, closing the door. “I don’t know why you listen to me. You really need to find some better influences.”

“I didn’t call him,” Dante says. He never planned on taking Mat’s advice. “And no, I wasn’t going to, either.”

Mat’s laugh is coated with disbelief. He may be a dick but he’s also a decent friend, leading Dante to the kitchen where he pours a fresh cup of coffee from the pot. “So he called you then?”

“No.” Dante wishes. It would have been easier to ignore. He accepts the coffee, letting it warm his hands first. “He showed up.” 

“Dude.” Mat’s eyes narrow slightly. “At your house?”

Dante hums, shaking his head. “I was skating at the park. When I turned around, there he was.”

“Shit,” Mat exhales. “How did he know?”

“How do you think?” Dante wraps an arm around himself and squeezes. It’s the only effective way to stop his shaking when the coffee’s warmth does little. “Sophia ratted me out. So we kind of just… talked.”

“Are you two back together then?” Mat raises an eyebrow.

Dante coughs, doing his best not to sputter coffee everywhere. “No, why would you think that?”

“C’mon,” Mat laughs in that dickish way that only Mat can— the way that’s meant to demean Dante all while putting on his best _but-I’m-your-best-friend-and-I-know-you_ smirk. If it wasn’t true, Dante would punch the smirk right off of him.

“We talked for like, fifteen minutes,” Dante says, ignoring that repeated feeling of something invisible tugging at his heart. It’s the same, painful tug he felt when Tyson smiled and again when he walked away. He doesn’t admit that he spent another fifteen minutes looking down the path Tyson took, hoping he’d change his mind and come running back.

“Fifteen minutes is a long time when you haven’t spoken in months.” Mat raises an eyebrow, arms crossed and head tilted as if he’s silently prodding for details that Dante won’t spill.

“It’s not like we even talked about anything important.” Dante gives Mat a firm look. There really is nothing to tell. “Just hi, hello, how’s the family. Stupid shit.”

“For fifteen minutes.” Mat isn’t budging either.

“Look, maybe we talked for five and stood there awkwardly for ten. Don’t ask me. I don’t— can we talk about something else? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.” Dante knows how prodding— how curious Mat can be. And maybe he’s like, a little concerned, hopeful that things will work out— sort of. Dante also knows that he’s just being nosy.

Mat proves this point quickly. “Did you kiss?”

“What? No!” Dante’s stomach does that familiar, nerve-filled somersault that he thought he’s forgotten. It reminds him that no matter the circumstance, there was a time where he quite liked kissing Tyson— that he’s pretty sure he’d _still_ like it— if he were, like, less bitter about the whole breakup.

“I mean, I dunno,” Mat shrugs. “Maybe you should consider it.”

“I’m not kissing my ex.” Dante would be lying if he said he didn’t think about it, though thinking isn’t exactly the same as doing. Thinking, usually, is much, _much_ safer. He knows that when push comes to shove none of it really matters. Kissing Tyson is no longer an option for him.

“It would be a pretty cheap Christmas present,” Mat says with a smug look that’s wiped off his face about the same time Dante socks him in the shoulder. He rubs his arm, eyebrows furrowed. “Dude, what the hell?”

“Keep it up and you aren’t getting a gift either.” Dante’s never been very good at bluffing, however this time, there’s no hidden laugh trying to force its way out. He’s serious.

Somehow, that does the trick.

..

Christmas comes and goes without so much as a word from Tyson. Dante tells Sophia that he’s glad— that it’s what he wants— but knows she can tell he’s bluffing. If he’s being honest, a simple text would have been nice. It’s the least Tyson could have done after turning his world on its side. 

“You know, you can just call him,” Sophia says, sitting next to Dante with two mugs of cocoa. She smiles sympathetically, passing one over to him. “Extra marshmallows just like you like. And a candy cane.”

Dante takes the mug, staring down at it. Tyson’s the one who started the candy cane thing. It reminds him of one Christmas— pre marriage— when Tyson declared candy cane hot chocolate to be _life changing_. Dante didn’t know then that, in a strange way, Tyson was right. “I just want to stop thinking about him, if that’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Sophia frowns this time, patting Dante’s knee. “But I understand.”

“It’s just— he had no business coming back here like he did.” Dante knows he’s probably already gone now, back to Kelowna to be with his family. It’s information that doesn’t make his surprise appearance any easier. 

“Maybe not,” Sophia says, blowing on her cocoa. “But he did. That should say something.”

“What do you think he wants?” Dante doesn’t dare mutter the word _divorce_, though he’s yet to be served any papers.

Sophia sips her hot chocolate, lowering the mug to her lap. “He wanted to see you, Dante.”

“Yeah, well, he saw me.” He tries his hot cocoa, peppermint already mixing in with the chocolate— remembering when he discovered it tasted so much better off of Tyson’s lips. It’s no coincidence that he mumbles _fuck_ upon setting his glass on the table. He can’t drink another sip.

Sophia sighs, rolling her eyes. “You’re allowed to be sad but don’t be stupid.” 

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” Dante crosses his arms. He’s used to Mat’s complete lack of tact and inability to pick sides when friends are involved, but he didn’t expect it from his own sister.

“I _am_ on your side,” Sophia says. “But you have to look at things from his point of view too.”

“If he’s so sad, then why didn’t he fight to save our relationship?” Dante laughs bitterly. It hurts when he thinks back to the way Tyson looked the night they decided to call it quits so he shakes his head until that thought dissipates. “Why was it so easy for him to just walk away?”

“Why didn’t _you_ fight for him?” Sophia’s stern.

They’re words that cut through his heart like a hot knife and the dull ache turns to something much worse— searing, fire-like as his heart becomes squeezed within his tightening chest. It hurts because he knows he could have fought— but he didn’t. It hurts even more knowing that his sister— the one on _his_ side is so easily calling him out. And it especially hurts when Dante wants to protest, but he can’t.

She isn’t wrong.

..

A week after Christmas, Tyson stops Dante in his driveway.

“Merry Christmas,” Tyson whispers, passing Dante a small box. It’s nothing he’s expecting, because he hasn’t even _seen_ Tyson since just after last Christmas.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Dante says, feeling bad. “Because I don’t have anything for you. I didn’t think you’d be here. Not after—”

“Just open it,” Tyson cuts in. “It’s, like, not a big deal or anything.”

Exhaling, Dante tears into the paper, opening the cardboard box. He pulls out something small and shiny, bracelet-like in nature, turning it over in his hands. It’s intricate and woven, the wire feeling thick and familiar beneath his fingertips. That’s when he realizes it isn’t any type of wire— they’re guitar strings.

“Tyson,” he says softly, knowing they were his. He always did hear about it when he used to leave them lying about. It’s far too thoughtful of a gift from the person he thought he’d spend forever with.

“I found it when I was packing,” Tyson admits, shifting his weight between feet. “You don’t have to wear it, but it _was_ supposed to be yours.”

“Oh,” Dante thinks he says, though he can’t be too sure. He’s pretty sure his heart stopped beating the second Tyson looks at him. He would have worn it day in and day out, admiring it until the strings began to oxidize. It would have reminded him of the boy he fell in love with. In a way, it still does. It’s why he closes the box and remembers what it’s like to breathe. Of course he can’t wear it.

Tyson reaches out, like he might take the box, but Dante pulls back. Regardless they’re _his_ strings— from _his_ guitar.

“Sorry.” Tyson’s voice comes across in a way Dante hasn’t heard in quite some time— meek and reminiscent of those hours that led up to their separating. 

It’s nothing Dante can re-live. “Don’t be, I like it. Thank you.” The smile he presents is fake; his feelings, buried deep down, aren’t. He won’t wear it, but he’ll keep it.

“Okay,” Tyson says, fidgeting. “But that’s not the real reason why I’m here.”

“Why _are_ you here?” Dante can hardly look at Tyson. He doesn’t have to look to know that he’s feeling that very same dull ache that starts deep within the innermost center of his heart. Dante knows because he feels it too.

“It’s just,” Tyson mumbles and Dante can hear the shuffle of his feet. His voice cracks when he speaks again. “I need help. I don’t know where else to turn.”

“Oh.” Of course he’s back when he needs something, Dante thinks, inhaling sharply. He knows he should say no. He owes Tyson nothing. The thing is, Dante’s never been very good at turning Tyson down. “What do you need?”

“I didn’t want to ask you,” Tyson says. He sounds borderline desperate. “But I talked to Mat and— I’m— well, he suggested I ask you.”

Of course he did, Dante thinks. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he says.

“Don’t do that.” Tyson lifts his hand, as if to touch Dante, but drops it down again. “He means well.”

“He’s nosy and meddling,” is what Dante decides, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “But alright, what business did Mat wiggle his way into this time?”

“I’m moving to California.” Tyson exhales after he says it, like an entire weight is lifted off of his shoulders. Which, is great, Dante guesses, but it doesn’t do him any good.

“So go,” Dante says flatly, because they aren’t together anymore— because what Tyson wants to do is his own business. So what if the original plan included the both of them.

“Come with me.” Tyson smiles but Dante knows exactly what this is. It’s a pity ask. And Dante pictures it— walking what was meant to be _their_ beach, looking at what was supposed to be _their_ house. He doesn’t think he can.

“You know it’s alright to go without me, right?” It registers pretty quickly that it isn’t really alright. Tyson’s willing to take on the life they had mapped out— alone. It’s as if Dante’s been easily erased.

“I know, but it only felt right if I asked you first.” When Tyson reaches into his pocket, he pulls out a slightly crumbled, folded-up excuse for a list. It isn’t until it’s unfolded that Dante knows what they are— addresses. “They’re mostly just condos.”

“Things are different now,” Dante says, because though his life itself hasn’t changed all that much sans Tyson, save for the cramped apartment they shared, it’s all of the things he did with Tyson— a laundry list of things he no longer does— that have.

He’s picked up new hobbies, like golf and basketball and pretty much anything physical that doesn’t involve music. He’s grown used to sleeping alone again and he’s moved on from sulking nightly, saving that for when a familiar song comes on the radio, or when he comes across an object that brings up a memory he thought he’d forgotten.

As for California? He simply pretended it no longer existed.

Tyson nods. “But we used to be so close. Guess I’m stupid for thinking we could hit a rewind button or something.”

“We were young and stupid, Tyson.” Dante runs a hand over his face. Now he’s pretty sure they’re just slightly older and still stupid. What he isn’t is stupid enough to go to California.

“Will you at least think about it? I’m not leaving for a few more weeks.”

“Sure,” Dante says when he really means no.

..

Dante’s half-awake when he feels the mattress sink ever so slightly, floating in and out of consciousness and teetering on the fine line between reality and dreaming. A soft sigh causes his heart to flutter. It’s barely recognizable and yet he instantly knows who it came from. He doesn’t move, body so heavy, still _so_ asleep, that he barely registers what’s going on. There’s a warmth that presses against his shoulder blade, arms circling his center that ease him, pulling him back to sleep almost instantly.

When he wakes up, he’s all alone. He knows it was all a dream— it’s _always_ a dream. Realistically, Tyson isn’t waiting in the wings for Dante to fall asleep, only to climb beneath the covers. Most days he isn’t even in the same province. 

California stays in the back of Dante’s mind much longer than he cares to admit. The nights he doesn’t dream about Tyson, he dreams about California. Most nights, it’s both.

January is when the vivid dreams begin. By February, California consumes his mind.

Sometimes, like this particular morning, he’s caught daydreaming, staring past the maps he’s laid out across the table and directly into his coffee. He imagines what it would be like if he took Tyson up on his offer— thought ending there when a knock at his door jolts him back to reality. His coffee goes flying.

“Fuck,” Dante mumbles, grabbing a roll of paper towels to mop up the mess. If he’s quick, the coffee won’t stain the maps. There’s three more raps at his door before he, begrudgingly, opens the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Why is it so hard for you to let people in?” Mat sighs and it’s almost ironic that he’s wedged between the door and the frame because it isn’t like Dante wouldn’t invite him in. He’d have opened the door sooner had it not been for a sudden maps vs. coffee related crisis.

“Then come in, idiot,” Dante says, hand full of papers and head full of way too much anguish for 11:00 AM. 

Mat, eyes rolling and pushing forward, does just that. “What is all of that stuff?”

“Maps.” It’s the abridged version.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mat says, smugly. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“No.” Truthfully, Dante doesn’t know what he’s doing. “But I feel like I owe it to him. How screwed up is that?”

“We’re all screwed up, man.” Mat tugs at the collar of his hoodie, inadvertently— or maybe deliberately— exposing what are unmistakably three rather impressive hickeys. It’s enough to elicit a laugh out of Dante. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. We’ll see how your neck looks after California.”

Dante wants to roll his eyes, deny he’s taking this trip and kick Mat out for good measure. He doesn’t. What he does do is crinkle his map when he lays it on the table, grabs his phone and texts Tyson before he can change his mind again.

_I’m in_.

..

**03:2020**

Dante’s in a car. He knows how he got there— it’s a conscious, grown-up decision he made. The trouble is, they’re no more than twenty miles from home when he begins to question if it’s the right decision.

Tyson turns on the radio and it does enough to temporarily drown out the intrusive thoughts that plague Dante’s mind. Until—

“This song,” Dante says the minute he hears it. It isn’t one they’ve danced to, kissed with it playing in the background, or even one that Dante strummed out for Tyson on his guitar. It’s one that Dante recalls playing on repeat, over and over until Sophia, maybe just tired of hearing it, temporarily talked some sense into him. Or maybe it was because she swiped his phone, threatening to throw it into the lake. Either way he’s over it.

“What about it?” Tyson doesn’t take his eyes off of the road. He wouldn’t. It’s a song that he likely has no connection with.

Dante shakes his head. He can ignore it mostly and he tries his best, watching the trees move as they pass them on the highway. It’s easy to tune out, until one line sticks with him, digging in deep—

_We’re bad for each other, but we ain’t good for anyone else._

It’s the line that pushes Dante and in a knee-jerk reaction, he hits the button that turns the radio off. Silence may be awkward but it’s favorable to being subjected to more of _that_.

“Hey.” Tyson finally looks over, frowning. “Do you need me to pull over? You’re pale as hell.” He reaches behind the console, struggling a bit, but comes up with a bottle of water, handing it to Dante.

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, probably, but Dante graciously accepts the water, sipping it until he no longer feels like throttling himself out into the next open field they pass.

..

There’s music again, soft and sweet. It’s a song Dante doesn’t recognize and it feels… safe. He sighs, head still resting against the window when he realizes he must have fallen asleep. Eyes blinking slowly, he watches Tyson for a few minutes who’s focused on the road, mouthing along to the radio. When the song ends, Dante sits up.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Tyson says softly, glancing over.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Dante replies, rubbing at his eyes. He spots tall buildings coming into view, peeking out from behind a mass of tall trees, telling him they’re, at the least, close to civilization. “I can drive for a little. Where are we?”

“Nah.” Tyson’s focusing on the road again when he motions to a nearby exit. “We’re almost to Portland. Figured this would be a nice place to stop.”

“Portland,” Dante repeats, leaning slightly to get a better view. He’s never been to Oregon before. “So that’s almost California, right?”

“Not even close.” Tyson pulls off of the exit and Dante’s easily able to get a better view of the cityscape. It’s interesting, Dante thinks, but a city is a city and at this point, they all look the same to him. “Santa Monica is another fourteen hours.”

Dante groans, letting the back of his head hit the seat. “And why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you love me,” Tyson says, gripping the steering wheel and backpedaling pretty quickly. “I mean— I didn’t mean that.”

_I did_, Dante thinks, but doesn’t dare say it. He even still might, but isn’t letting himself think about those things. “Because this is what you need, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Tyson nods, smiling slightly. Soon he’ll be free and it’s Dante who’s freeing him. It’s a sad thought and only leaves Dante wondering when _he’ll_ be free.

They pass plenty of decent looking hotels, all of which Dante finds are way too expensive for their budget. He’s just about to give up when Tyson drives past a place that looks straight out of a film featured in Vegas, neon lights and all.

“The Palms Motor Hotel,” Tyson reads slowly, but all Dante notices is how the ‘E’ seems to glow so much brighter than the rest of ‘Hotel.’ Before he can react, Tyson’s pulling in and parking the car.

“Tyson,” Dante says, looking past the gaudy lit-up palm tree and directly at the motel itself. “This place is a complete shithole.”

“Yeah,” Tyson responds, shutting off the engine and climbing out. He pops the trunk and grabs his suitcase. “But it’s a cheap shithole. Now help me drag this stuff inside. I’m exhausted.”

Dante does as he’s told, pulling his suitcase into the lobby. He wanders over to a stand stuffed full of colorful pamphlets (hiking to whatever Witch’s Castle is sounds terrible) and leafs through a few. His train of thought is interrupted by Tyson’s plea of, “well what’s the cheapest room then,” and frowns, setting down a pamphlet for the Japanese Garden.

“Come on,” Tyson says, waving a hotel key and Dante, nodding, follows.

“Did you know they have a cherry blossom festival here every year?” Dante shivers when they step outside, making their way to their room for the night. For spring, Portland is _cold_. 

Tyson shakes his head. “Oregon’s never been on my radar.”

“Yeah well,” Dante says, lifting his suitcase when Tyson unlocks the door. “Here we are.”

“Home sweet temporary home.” Tyson bumps the door open with his hip, flips the light and drags his bag inside. There’s a mini fridge and a microwave and there’s a bed— singular. 

It takes Dante a second to process. 

The room has _one_ bed. He panics.

..

Some fresh air and a phone call to Sophia help. She’s always been good at sternly talking sense into him. It’s just a bed and Dante’s fine with that— until he walks back in and Tyson is lying dead center.

“You did this on purpose.” Dante’s laugh is panic-ridden and he _knows_ Tyson knows. He’s always been able to read him easily. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the fact that there’s two of them and _one_ bed.

“I didn’t,” Tyson says, sitting up slowly. “But it’s, like, an extra fifteen dollars for two beds and— look, I’ll sleep on the couch if it’ll make you feel better. I only need a few hours anyway.”

“I’m not taking your bed from you.” Dante protests but it doesn’t matter. Tyson is already moving across the room, sinking into the sofa when he sits. 

Dante has no choice but to take the bed, knowing none of this really matters. He won’t be able to sleep easily. He’s tired enough to not bother with getting undressed and falls face first into the mattress, sighing when Tyson’s ‘goodnight’ comes across a little passive aggressive. _Of course_, Dante tells himself. He should have known. “What is it now?”

“Nothing.” Tyson shifts a little too loudly for someone with no blankets and Dante can tell he’s trying his hardest to get comfortable in a chair that has to be cramped after a day of driving. 

“Jesus,” Dante mutters, sitting up. Tyson’s visibly uncomfortable, obviously. He doesn’t want to admit just how much his heartbeat begins to pick up when he speaks again. “It’s a big enough bed. We can share.”

Tyson doesn’t answer, which is probably for the best. He just— quietly— moves across the room, lowering himself down on one end of the bed. They’re both quiet for awhile, though Dante can’t sleep, taking to listening to Tyson’s steady breathing instead. It hitches and Tyson rolls onto his side. “I know I promised there’d be better hotels, but—”

“You promised a lot of things,” Dante cuts in, voice growing weak. “We both did.”

“Yeah.” Tyson sighs. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” There’s a million reasons why Dante wants to be mad and a million more why no matter how hard he tries, he just plain can’t. “We both fucked up, remember?”

“But you still came here with me.” Tyson’s voice is light.

“To bumfuck Oregon,” Dante says, rolling his eyes despite it being dark.

“Portland,” Tyson corrects. “They’re too hipster here for you to slander them that way.”

“Yeah?” Dante sits up, turning to fluff his pillow. Hotel pillows are always too soft. “So then I guess tomorrow we’re going for artisanal lattes and taking a taxidermy class?”

“Jesus.” Tyson laughs. “Do I need to remind you that you almost failed out of home ec? I don’t think your sewing skills are up to par.” 

Dante can’t help but crack a smile when he lays back down. “Yeah you’re probably right.”

There’s a little light— just enough for Dante to catch Tyson smiling back at him.

It reminds him of their wedding night, long after they attempted to turn in. Even with the lights off, Tyson was unable to keep himself from smiling. Dante recalls pulling Tyson close, whispering for him to get some sleep. Even then, with Tyson’s face buried against his neck, Dante could tell he wasn’t going to stop smiling.

This time, Tyson’s smile slowly fades out.

“I guess we should get some sleep?” Dante squints, trying to read Tyson better. It feels far too familiar, even with Tyson a few extra inches away from him than what was once typical. 

“Probably,” Tyson says though he doesn’t turn over like Dante expects— something else he had grown used to in their brief marriage. Obviously he’s not looking to spoon tonight.

“So…” Dante’s voice trails off, heartbeat quickening when he reaches to pull up the blanket and his hand accidentally brushes Tyson’s arm along the way. He means to say sorry, it’s just— suddenly Tyson’s closer and his face clear unlike Dante’s brain that goes instantly foggy. This time, it’s Tyson’s hand that brushes against _his_ arm.

“Dante?”

“Please don’t talk right now,” Dante says quick enough to react first and think later, leaning forward in what he knows is a risky move. He stops short of Tyson’s mouth, breath catching. He can’t _actually_ kiss Tyson, he tells himself. And he doesn’t, technically. Not until Tyson makes a surprised sound, hand coming up to rest at Dante’s cheek, throwing caution to the wind and kissing him first.

..

Twenty-two minutes.

Dante isn’t keeping track of the time, really. He’s too caught up in kissing Tyson. It’s just… last time he caught the clock was twenty-two minutes ago, he thinks, and they’re showing no signs of stopping.

“You’re… a really good kisser,” Tyson mumbles against Dante’s lips, pulling him in. 

Dante exhales with a shudder. It’s been awhile since he’s felt this way, not surprised that it’s still Tyson who sends a jolt down his spine with a simple touch. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Shouldn’t,” Tyson says, going in for another kiss, slow and purposeful. “But we are.”

It’s easy, like neither forgot— like riding a bike, Dante thinks— which is a really stupid metaphor— except for the fact that it’s holding pretty damn true. He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like or how Tyson’s lips feel against his. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s even better this time around. 

Dante caresses Tyson’s cheek, warming to the way he turns into the touch, mouth half-open and searching for another kiss. He gives in, easily, telling himself that it’s _just_ a kiss— a kiss that fuels the fire until he’s gripping blindly, Tyson pressed against him, teeth tugging his bottom lip in a way he’s forgotten until that very moment.

“Tys,” Dante manages to mumble against his lips, breathless. He could easily kiss him more, pushing his thoughts down until later— worry about the repercussions on another day, when Tyson’s left town again.

“Dante,” Tyson answers, but there isn’t more to it. Just silence.

“What?” Dante freezes and not because he wants to. He needs that momentary pause to remember what it is to breathe.

Tyson shakes his head. “Maybe you’re right. We shouldn’t.”

“And you pick now to listen to me?” Dante exhales, sitting up. He liked it better when they skipped the talking and settled for being reckless— when Tyson’s eyes were dark and wanting. Now, he looks, frowning— Tyson’s eyes are _sad_.

“It’s not that I don’t like kissing you.” For someone suddenly so against it, he’s seemingly unable to pull away, hand resting at the base of Dante’s neck. “I’ve always liked it. Really, _really _liked it.”

Dante nearly vibrates beneath Tyson’s touch. He doesn’t want it to stop, but— “But you can’t.”

“I can’t,” Tyson whispers, lips brushing Dante’s. “Can I?”

Dante doesn’t answer. He lingers, wanting but trying his best not to give in to temptation. Once he starts again, there’s no stopping.

“Kiss me,” Tyson barely gets out before Dante breaks and does just that.

..

“We have to go.” Tyson’s voice is soft and sweet when it fills Dante’s ears, waking him from his slumber. He almost forgets that despite whatever may have happened last night, Tyson still isn’t his. Not anymore.

“Five more minutes,” Dante murmurs against the pillow, pulling the duvet tightly around himself. He doesn’t think a little bit longer will set them too far out. It’ll take over eight hours to get to Sacramento, but there’s no reason they can’t take their time. 

“It’s almost ten.” Tyson’s palm is warm against his shoulder and gentle in shaking him.

The thing is, Dante doesn’t _want_ to go. He was content at home, sleeping in when he wanted and going out when he pleased. There’s nothing exhilarating about cramming back into the car with his former husband for several hours.

In fact, when he actually thinks about it, it’s downright depressing— even if Tyson let him kiss him. Maybe especially so. “Just leave me here,” he mumbles into the pillow, because while he doesn’t mean it, it sounds right.

When the door shuts, he jumps up.

“You can’t leave me here!” Dante hops across the room, one leg in his sweatpants when he grabs his half-zipped suitcase. He doesn’t hear the car starting, but doesn’t take any chances, scrambling to get dressed. He’s still pulling his t-shirt down when he pushes his way outside, except Tyson isn’t leaving— he’s just… standing there.

Dante can only guess his disheveled hair and wrinkled clothing are a sight for Tyson.

“You look stupid,” Tyson says, laughing loud enough to wake up any surrounding guests. He drags his suitcase over the curb, trunk popping when he’s close enough. “Are you almost ready? We have to get back on the road.”

“I thought we were going to explore Portland,” Dante says, doing his best to smooth down the unruly mess on top of his head. “And it’s my turn to drive.”

“Change of plans.” Tyson moves the suitcases into the trunk, motioning towards the main building. “I already checked us out, so we’re good to go. You flew out the door as I was on my way back to get you.”

“You said you were leaving me here!” Dante’s heart has finally stopped pounding at least.

“Well I didn’t.” Tyson grins. “But we have to get on the road before noon otherwise we’re screwed.”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” Dante climbs into the passenger seat and leans back, eyes closing momentarily. It’s far too bright and he’s too lacking caffeine for this. “Or do you have some hot date that you’re in a rush to get to?”

“What? No.” Tyson gets in behind the wheel, looking over once they’ve left the parking lot. “We both know you don’t really want to be here. You’re just being nice.”

“Because I am nice, Tyson.” Dante rolls his eyes, somewhat negating his comment. He gets one last look at the neon palm tree before they turn a corner and it’s out of sight forever. Truth be told he won’t miss it. It’s just another weird landmark he’ll add to the list of many he sees when he closes his eyes each night. “And you don’t know what I want.”

“What _do_ you want, Dante?”

“Breakfast,” he says, because he doesn’t feel like having that kind of conversation. Not until his stomach is full, anyway.

It’s how they end up at Voodoo— because Dante’s mom isn’t there to cook them eggs and Dante quite prefers something sweet anyway— because Tyson, though he doesn’t admit it, must feel slightly bad at pretending to leave Dante behind earlier.

When Dante walks inside, he’s instantly attracted to the carousel of decorated sweet treats, going back and forth between which ones he actually wants to eat. It’s not every day he’s able to get away with eating donuts for breakfast.

Tyson leans over, too. There’s a split second where their eyes meet and it’s Dante who’s first to look away, cheeks warm. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

“Obviously we’re getting a whole box,” Tyson says with a laugh, picking out a few for himself and suggesting some he thinks Dante would like. “I promise I’ll share.”

“Oreo and peanut butter? Are you kidding me? Yes, _please_.” It’s funny, Dante thinks, how well Tyson still knows him, even if it’s just his preference in food. He smiles and Tyson reaches for his wallet, but Dante shoos him away. “I’ve got it.”

“So,” the girl with purple hair leans over the counter, smiling. “How long have you two been together?”

“Oh,” Dante stumbles over his words. “We’re not—”

“Really?” She smiles, sliding the box of donuts across the counter. “The chemistry between you two is astounding. You don’t have to be shy.”

“Thanks,” is all Dante can say, handing his card over as quickly as possible. It doesn’t help that whenever he glances at Tyson, his face contorts, like he’s trying his best not to laugh.

“You know,” she says, taking the card and swiping it, handing it back with a wink. “We do weddings here. Think about it.”

“We will. Thank you,” Tyson says before Dante can respond— which is for the best. He can only imagine how pale he went over the word _wedding_. Tyson grabs the box, smiling back at the purple-haired girl and leads Dante towards the door, hand pressed to the small of his back. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Dante doesn’t talk again until he’s back in the car. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Funny,” Tyson says, rifling through the donut box.

“It would probably be funnier if we hadn’t already been there, done that, bought the t-shirt and set it on fire.” Dante reaches over the console, grabbing a donut covered in crushed up Oreos. 

Tyson makes a muffled sound— something similar to a laugh— mouth full of a maple donut. “Lighten up,” he says. Which is easy for him to say, Dante thinks. He’s the one running.

..

They drive for at least six hours. Five of them are spent bogarting the aux cord, because he can’t drive if he can’t focus and there’s little focusing unless he’s feeling. It’s little surprise he plays only the saddest songs.

On the sixth hour, Tyson grabs Dante’s phone, unplugging it. “I can’t listen to this shit anymore. It’s too depressing.”

“And me driving my ex husband to California isn’t?” Dante laughs, half-shrugging with one hand on the steering wheel. He doesn’t mention the countless depressing songs Tyson’s played over the course of the trip so far. They’re out of donuts, moved on to some fast food and a giant soda that’s caused Tyson to need to pull off the road three times already and already switched drivers twice. Not to mention Dante’s pretty sure he’s crashing from his previous sugar high. “Please let me wallow.”

“Then why did you agree to come?” Tyson’s voice is quiet. “And why are you wallowing?”

Dante rolls his eyes. He knows it’s an answer Tyson knows all too well. If it isn’t the guilt of a failed marriage that made him come along, it’s definitely the unresolved feelings that led him to where he is now. “Why are you going to California?”

“You know why.” Tyson frowns. “Don’t deflect.”

“Then don’t leave.” Dante says it as if it’s simple— as if Tyson hadn’t already left. “It’s not too late to go back home.”

“Do you remember when you wanted to spend the day backpacking in Kelowna?” Tyson grabs the soda, sipping loudly when Dante nods. “And I said that was a stupid idea?”

“But was it a stupid idea?” They got lost initially and yeah, Dante knows he’s to blame for that one, but eventually, together, they found their way. He remembers their first few steps across the suspension bridge— how each terrifying step made Dante’s veins thrum with adrenaline— how the breathtaking view at the end was oh so worth it.

“It wasn’t stupid, Dante.” He reaches over, hand brushing Dante’s elbow. “But I went because you wanted to. I trusted you.”

“And I got us lost so, the joke was on you, I guess.” Dante cracks a smile. To be fair, he’s also the one who got them un-lost. “Why did you trust me, anyway?”

Tyson chews his bottom lip. “I loved you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Tyson repeats. “But I also supported you in everything you’ve ever done. Seeing your face when we got to the top was worth it. You looked so accomplished— so _free_. Maybe it’s selfish but I want that, too. I want to know how that feels to finally plant my feet in the sand and say this is it— I made it.”

And suddenly it all makes sense. It may not have been Dante who Tyson’s been running from all of this time. It’s himself.

The next song is slightly faster and makes Dante drive as such. Tyson points out Redding on the map but hums, finger trailing down as he does so.

“Don’t tell me you have to piss again,” Dante says with a groan. “I haven’t seen any rest stops coming up, so you’re going to have to use a bottle.”

“Sick.” Tyson laughs, nose wrinkling. “I was looking at the map. We can stop in Redding or push another two-ish hours and rest in Sacramento.”

Dante’s hungry and tired and if he didn’t know what there was to do in Portland, he sure as hell doesn’t know what Redding holds nor Sacramento. He rubs his eyes, tired from staring at the road. Redding is closer. They could rest up and eat. But Sacramento is closer to their destination. “Do we have to decide now?”

“The exit’s coming up within the half hour, so yeah.” Tyson shifts in his seat, plugging the aux cord into his own phone. He plays something safe— something soft and instrumental. _His sleeping music_, Dante thinks.

He knows Tyson well enough, despite the months apart, to understand his unspoken language— from the way he shifts in his seat to the way his eyes linger then slowly make their way back to the GPS. Dante knows Tyson’s eager to get there, ready for a new start. “Let’s keep going.”

“Yeah?” Tyson smiles.

“Yeah, why not,” Dante says, catching the way Tyson’s eyes light up. “Then we’ll be that much closer tomorrow.” Tyson offers to drive, but Dante shrugs it off. The least he can do is drive a little longer.

“Let me know if you need to switch though.” Tyson turns, reaching in the back for a half-eaten bag of chips, drink in hand. Tongue out, he rustles the bag, shoving a hand in. “For now, I’m going to refuel.”

“Refuel,” Dante repeats, laughing. “You just ate six donuts.”

“Yeah,” Tyson says, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. “But these are potatoes. Vegetables are important too, Dante.”

When Tyson wiggles his eyebrows, Dante laughs again, shaking his head. So many things have changed between the two of them. Tyson’s childlike innocence mixed with a propensity for trouble? That clearly hasn’t.

“I’ll remember that next time I decide to completely disregard the food pyramid.” Dante smirks, snagging a chip for himself. He isn’t hungry but bites it mostly for show. “Mmm, potatoes.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tyson says, crinkling the bag some more.

And yeah, he knows. It’s especially apparent when they pass the exit for Redding and Dante, confident, floors the gas. He isn’t in a hurry to reach Santa Monica and can’t even begin to think about how he’s going to say goodbye but Tyson’s smile, Tyson’s eagerness is what pushes him to continue. Anything to keep him smiling.

..

Sacramento is easily Dante’s favorite destination. The tower bridge, bright and tall, brings him an indescribable feeling of nostalgia, despite never actually setting foot in California before. He thinks it has to be the painted yellow of the steel that reminds him of better, warmer days, sunny and happy. 

“It’s just a bridge,” Tyson says, laughing when they pass. “There’s a million in Vancouver.”

“This one’s different,” Dante decides. “It makes me happy.”

Tyson looks back out at the bridge giving a single nod, smiling when he turns back to him. “Then it’s a good bridge. I like when you smile.”

That makes Dante smile even more.

Then they get to the motel.

It isn’t _the_ Motel 6, obviously. Still, it’s slightly reminiscent of the one where they shared their first dance in the center of the room, Tyson’s arms wrapped around his waist. The room even looks similar, from the doorway where they shared that first married kiss down to the bed where they discussed their hopes and dreams. They had it all planned out.

Tyson tosses his bag at the end of the bed. He must feel it, too. “I’m starving. Do you want to get out of here?”

Dante nods. He doesn’t need to be asked twice. “There’s gotta be a diner around here, right?”

“We passed one coming in. It’s just down the street.” Tyson grabs for his wallet and one of the room keys. “I mean it doesn’t look great, but those places are always the ones that end up having the best food.”

“We should check it out.” Dante unintentionally mimics Tyson, grabbing his own things, including a hoodie. It’s walking distance, which is a convenient way for both of them to stretch their legs after hours in the car.

They find the diner quickly.

When they step inside, Dante kind of wishes they hadn’t.

It’s darker than either expect, booths tattered and tables dented. The staff is friendly, but spend a lot of time lingering. While the food is _okay_, neither finish it and most of their dinner conversation is centered around cooking up backstories for all of the bored-looking staff. 

Tyson decides their waitress is a runaway, starting fresh in California. Her made up backstory is riveting, though, save for a few minor details, oddly similar to his own. 

“So what is she looking for?” Dante asks when she’s out of earshot. 

“Happiness,” Tyson says, smiling. It’s a safe answer.

Dante hums. “Do you think she’ll find it?”

She must know they’re talking about her because when they look over, she smiles. Tyson nods— at her, at Dante. “California’s a good change. I think she’s on her way.”

“Well good,” Dante says even though he isn’t so sure he means it. There’s nothing good at the answer to someone’s happiness being to leave you behind. Again. He also realizes that it isn’t the motel _or_ the diner that’s getting to him— it’s Tyson.

Tyson smiles, oblivious to it all. Or maybe he gets it and chooses not to. It’s the safest option. There’s a split second where Dante thinks it must be the latter, when they brush hands reaching for the check.

“It’s fine, I got this one.” Tyson pulls the little black envelope away before Dante can protest. “You’ve been nice enough to come along. I know you only did it because Barzy blew up your phone.”

“Dude, he showed up at my door,” Dante says without much thought. It’s the truth, anyway.

Tyson winces. “Yeah, he’s… pushy, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea.” Dante’s voice softens when Tyson passes off the bill to the waitress. He waits until she’s gone again to continue. “But he didn’t, like, force me to do this. I wanted to.”

“Do you promise?” Tyson doesn’t look up.

“Yeah,” Dante says, brows furrowed when Tyson raises his head, expression flat. “Yes,” he repeats.

“Okay.” It’s long and drawn out followed by a sigh that’s covered by a plastered on smile. “Well thank you. I know everything kind of sucks, but you coming along really means a lot to me.”

“It does?” Dante watches as Tyson retrieves his receipt, rising up from the chair.

“Obviously,” Tyson laughs, motioning towards the door. “Like I’d trust anyone else with my life.”

_His life_, Dante thinks, standing as well. “That’s kind of an extreme way of putting it. We’re just driving to Santa Monica.”

He can tell by Tyson’s face that it isn’t _just_ about the drive or Santa Monica. His stomach swirls when they leave the diner— when Tyson’s close, but quiet. Dante knows there’s something on his mind. Tyson hasn’t left his.

They make it back to their motel without much more than small talk. It isn’t until they’ve stepped inside and Dante’s kicking off his shoes that Tyson rolls his shoulders and turns to him.

“What’s on your mind, Tys?” Dante gives his shoulder a squeeze. It’s soft, but enough to awaken _something_. He thinks he hears Tyson whisper an inaudible _you_ and shakes it off, not allowing his mind to play tricks on him. _Not now_, he tells himself. Dante exhales instead, head tilted.

Tyson’s hand comes up, the backside brushing his cheek. He’s silent and _okay_, Dante thinks. Maybe he isn’t hearing things. He considers asking, mouth parting just enough when he’s stopped by not Tyson’s words, but his lips pressing firmly against his own.

..

Dante slots his leg between Tyson’s, fingers curling around the bottom of his shirt and tugs. It comes off easily and Tyson returns the favor, yanking Dante’s off and tossing it onto the floor with a flick of his wrist. It’s not just kissing in the doorway anymore. It’s Tyson mumbling against his mouth, letting Dante take the lead and pinning him to the bed.

It’s laughing in between kisses, making out the same way they did when they were slightly younger, Dante’s parents in the other room. Before rings and vows and stupid mistakes. Before broken hearts and promises.

“Should we—” He’s cut off by Tyson’s mouth over his and that thought— _no, we shouldn’t_— is extinguished. _It doesn’t matter_, he tells himself. _It’s just one time_. Dante can get it out of his system. He can move on. He _can_.

Tyson’s kisses are hard for him to resist, the tips of their tongues grazing as they intensify, hips meeting with a simple arch of his back. They’re little details Dante’s never forgotten— ones he’s already well aware of, knowing exactly how to respond. He doesn’t have to work too hard to get Tyson out of his sweatpants. He’s already breathy, pushing them down when they break apart. 

It makes Dante smirk.

“Shut up and take off your pants,” Tyson says, wiggling free from his own.

“I didn’t even say anything.” Dante’s downfall is glancing over, dizzy over the way Tyson looks beneath him. Tyson, of course, winks. It’s been… awhile, anyway, since he’s seen Tyson this way. 

This time it’s Tyson’s turn to smirk. “You gonna stare all day or fuck me?”

Dante’s brain does something similar to a laptop bluescreening. He must look stupid, mouth half opened, because he barely hears Tyson’s laugh until he’s tapping at his hip with a “C’mon."

He shifts— no, fumbles and loses his pants somewhere between the bedsheets, breath hitching when Tyson doesn’t waste a second getting a lube slicked hand around him. Typical, Dante thinks. Tyson’s always been unashamedly impatient.

They kiss again, only this time it’s slow, Tyson’s fingertips dancing along the back of his neck. He’d think it’s meant to be sweet, except Tyson’s hips roll up and he elicits the most obscene of moans. Dante takes the hint, hand splayed across Tyson’s thigh as he gives in, sinking into him.

It’s much like he remembers— Tyson overly handsy and vocal, leg hooking around him and practically grinding up. Dante presses a palm against his chest, holding him there. “What’s the rush?”

Tyson’s laugh is heavy and matches the way he breathes, chest rising and falling. “Can go slow later,” he says, dragging his lips along Dante’s neck. He settles on a sensitive spot and sucks the skin between his teeth. He not only finds it with ease, he remembers.

Dante nods, head tilting to the side. _Later_, he thinks, knowing they can’t— knowing they might. It’s a problem for future Dante to work through, he decides, catching Tyson in another kiss, pushing down as Tyson rolls up, moving together until it all goes fuzzy.

It’s better— much better— he knows, because Tyson doesn’t stop telling him, blunt fingernails digging into his forearm. And Tyson’s never exactly been quiet, but he’s overly vocal this time around, letting Dante know exactly what he wants.

“I’m gonna,” Tyson groans, stroking himself until he’s coming, eyes practically begging Dante to follow suit. It doesn’t take much more for Dante to meet him there, foreheads meeting with a shudder and a few short gasps.

They exchange a few more slow and lazy kisses until Dante closes his eyes— just for a minute— he thinks. When they open again with a few sleepy blinks, it’s dark and Tyson’s sound asleep, tucked beneath his arm. 

Tyson shifts and Dante rubs his lower back until he settles again, just like he’d used to. He can feel future Dante looking down on him, arms crossed until he pushes that thought back into the corner of his mind. _Later_, he tells himself, focused on Tyson’s shallow breathing, allowing it to lull him back to sleep.

..

Tyson is awake before him and the car is already packed once he’s showered and ready to go. It isn’t that Tyson isn’t talking about things, he’s just visibly eager to go. So they do.

Dante’s unable to shake the way Tyson makes his stomach flip over only this time it hurts a little less. He’s optimistic when they pile into the car and wave goodbye to Sacramento. The thing is, he can’t _exactly_ pinpoint why he’s on a high… until Tyson grins. His smile is a gentle reminder of how easily he fell in love the first time and how hard it will be _not_ to do it again.

He ignores the taunting voice in his head that laughs at him, telling him, _you are in love, idiot_. He’s not. He _can’t_ be.

“Ready?” Tyson programs his new condo into the GPS and just like that, they’re off.

It’s a different kind of drive this time— one that leads Dante to believing they’re playing a dangerous game. They sing along to the radio when Tyson drives and Dante’s fed french fries when they switch three hours in. In the final hour, Tyson shifts, head resting at Dante’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there,” Dante says, feeling the change in pressure when Tyson shifts again, struggling to get as comfortable as he can be in such an awkward position.

“Mm,” Tyson hums, eyes closing.

Dante takes care not to jolt too much, avoiding potholes or unnecessarily fast lane changes. He doesn’t mind that the near silence makes the hour feel excessively long. It’s the last time they’ll do this.

The GPS chirps more frequently when they’re close— so much that Tyson lifts his head, yawning when Dante hushes it.

“She won’t listen to you, she’s a robot,” Tyson mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“She talks too much,” Dante says, turning down the street when she prompts. “Did you enjoy your nap?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Tyson rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Where are we?” He squints, rolling down his window to take in the setting sun. Inhaling, he grins.

They drive alongside the ocean and though Dante can’t take his eyes off of the road for too long, he can smell the salt water. Every so often, he’s able to catch glimpses of the now sparkling pink and orange ocean, smiling when Tyson leans over to snap a photo.

Dante knows it’s final when he pulls into the parking lot. “You’re home.”

..

It’s a nice studio-sized condo, roomy enough and almost fully furnished with an even better view. Tyson admits he’s been saving up for years and something within Dante _hurts_. This condo was supposed to be theirs.

Dante sinks down on the couch and Tyson, unaware of everything he’s feeling, takes up space next to him.

“So what do you think?” Tyson leans back, turning towards him. “Pretty sick place, huh?”

There’s plenty of things Dante could say starting with a _no it sucks_ or _come home_— not that he knows what home is anymore. Home for both of them has been different for quite some time. He can’t lie, anyway. Tyson’s place _doesn’t_ suck. He settles on a nod of agreement. 

Tyson moves a little closer, perhaps out of habit and it’s difficult for Dante not to react. He could slip his arm around Tyson’s waist and pull him in, holding him there until he has to leave. He considers it, too— until his phone vibrates.

Dante checks his phone— it’s Mat with a poorly timed _get it_— and makes a mental note to kill him later. Nose wrinkling, he pockets his phone.

“That doesn’t look promising.” Tyson shifts his weight on the sofa. 

“Just Mat being an idiot,” Dante says. “Nothing new.”

Tyson’s smiling but then it’s more of a smirk and Dante doesn’t have to ask why. Not when Tyson is crowding him at one end of the couch, mouth just inches away from his own. “Does he think we’re banging?”

“Does it matter?” He hasn’t told Mat shit, so unless Tyson has—

“No,” Tyson says, backing off slightly, face doing something funny. “Oh God, did you tell him we did? He’s going to kick my ass.”

“Of course not.” Dante’s voice softens. He knows better than to involve Mat. “Besides, he isn’t coming all the way to Santa Monica to kick your ass so I think you’re safe.”

“Oh.” Tyson settles back in his seat, leaning into Dante’s side. “I mean I’ll be back in the summer to visit.”

“Visit?” It takes Dante aback— it means Tyson isn’t _really_ running away, just… moving.

His face turns up, smile barely visible. “Yeah, Kacey lives there.”

“Right,” Dante says, repeating, “Kacey.” He’d be a fool to think that Tyson would actually come back for him.

Then, carefully, Tyson shifts again, head moving to Dante’s chest. Neither says a word. It reminds Dante of their first week married, when neither _had_ to talk, living off of that newlywed buzz.

Dante can tell by the way Tyson sighs that he’s not unhappy— he’s exhausted. If he leans over, he knows he’ll find Tyson’s eyes, heavy and closing, knowing he’ll be asleep in no time. Tyson’s fingers curl around the bottom of Dante’s sweatshirt and tug gently as if trying to bring him closer. 

It’s natural the way Dante’s arm wraps around Tyson’s shoulder, holding him tightly to his chest. He doesn’t let go and frankly, doesn’t _want _to, afraid that he’ll slip away forever should he let Tyson out of his sight.

He thinks Tyson’s asleep and leans down, pressing a kiss to his forehead— another nighttime ritual gone by the wayside. It isn’t until he lifts his head again that he realizes how very wrong he is.

“You’re still like that, huh?” Tyson smiles.

Dante wrinkles his nose. He isn’t _like_ anything. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tyson, sitting up, smiles wider. “You’re sweet.”

Dante wants to thank him. He means to, really. But when Tyson turns to him, the corners of his mouth still curled up, he does the only thing his brain allows. He kisses him.

..

Tyson wants to go to the pier. It’s crowded and touristy but it’s also well-known enough that Dante knows he’d kick himself had he driven all the way to Santa Monica and not at least snapped his sisters a photo of the famous ferris wheel.

Dante tells himself he won’t get sad or nostalgic in a place that’s new to him. It’s easy at first. Then Tyson leads him to the ferris wheel. 

They’re stopped high above the boardwalk when Tyson leans to look out as far as he can. Tyson’s eyes go wide when the ride jolts back into motion and Dante can’t help but laugh. Just like that he’s left to reminisce about all of the times Tyson’s curiosity often got the best of him. 

Turns out it isn’t the place that brings back memories. It’s the person.

When they walk along the boardwalk it takes all of Dante’s restraint not to reach out and grab his hand. He grew used to Tyson’s fingers intertwining with his own, pretending that bumping hands until Tyson took his was a coincidence. 

They reach the end of the pier when Tyson finally outstretches his hand, their fingers interlocking.

“Hey.” Dante jerks back unintentionally and Tyson drops his hand.

Tyson, forcing a smile, diverts his attention towards the rollercoaster. “Do you want to ride that next?”

But Dante isn’t looking at the rides. He’s focused on the ocean and how they’re both so far from home. The ocean, he thinks, is their link. “Do you think if we both swim in the ocean at the same time, you here, me at home, we’ll know?”

“No,” Tyson says, turning towards the Pacific. “It’s _huge_. But I can text you or something before I jump in. We’ll make it a date.”

Dante wants to shake him— tell him that things don’t work that way. That when you’re separated, there’s no _dating_. Especially not when you’re living two separate lives in two different countries. The problem is, Tyson’s forced smile tells Dante he’s _trying_.

He imagined his first trip to Santa Monica would be under different circumstances— with someone who loves him. He watches as a couple walks by, hand-in-hand and has to will himself to push that feeling of envy deep down until he no longer feels it. Instead, all that’s left is sadness. 

“Don’t be sad,” Tyson says. He must have picked up on it. It’s Dante’s turn to give his best forced smile, but it’s too late. Tyson already knows. “You can’t fool me. I know you.”

Dante laughs bitterly, the edges of his sadness burning with that bit of anger he’s held back for so long. Tyson didn’t have to drag him here. He especially didn’t have to stir up old feelings just to send him on his way. But he did. “Do you? Maybe you knew the old, stupid, easily-influenced, willing to elope at the drop of a hat Dante. He didn’t know any better. But you don’t know me now.”

The problem is Dante isn’t so sure he even knows _himself_ anymore.

“Are you going to be happy here?” Dante finally asks. It may be blunt but he needs an answer.

“I think so,” Tyson says motioning to all that surrounds them. “I mean you saw the view.”

And— Dante knew what he was getting into— knew at the end of this trip, he would have to go home without Tyson. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“What happened to us?” Dante says so quietly that he isn’t sure Tyson even hears.

“People drift.” Tyson shifts, frowning. He heard. “I couldn’t stay after we broke up. It would have been weird seeing you around— people rubbing it in my face that we screwed up. You know everyone said we would.”

“Not everyone.” Dante shrugs. His mother wasn’t exactly impressed that he impromptu eloped at eighteen but did her best to accept Tyson into their family, as if she hadn’t already done so years ago. They were close, knowing all too well their mothers still talk, only since the separation, Dante is purposely left out of the loop. “But maybe it’s time we own up to our mistakes. We were young.”

“We’re still young, Dante.” Tyson sighs, crossing his arms. “I’m twenty-one and just as stupid as I was at eighteen. Not that much has changed.”

“So what do we do?” Dante tries his best not to look at Tyson, knowing it’ll break him.

“Divorce?” The way Tyson says it is jarring, as if neither had dared utter the word until today. Separated or not, it’s nothing Dante ever wanted to think about and it isn’t exactly like Tyson had come to him with papers, either. 

“Isn’t that what people do when it doesn’t work out?” Dante sighs when he thinks about how exhausting the process will be— he Googled it, once, out of spite. They can get it done on their own for a _measly_ $1k. “I don’t want to get a lawyer and all of that. It was mostly amicable and we’re both better off now, right?”

The boardwalk is supposed to be romantic— a place for forming memories or at the very least, to let loose and have fun. And here they are, surrounded by tourists snapping photos and children with balloons talking about _divorce_. 

Tyson doesn’t answer.

A couple comes by and asks for a photo that Tyson takes for them. He doesn’t speak again until they’ve walked away, wrapped up in one another. “That should be us.”

This time, as much as Dante wants to, he _doesn’t_ kiss Tyson. It’ll be better if he doesn’t.

“C’mon,” Dante says softly, hand brushing Tyson’s back. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go.”

..

They end up ordering sushi while Tyson unpacks the few things he brought along— his television and mostly clothing. The rest of it will arrive once he’s settled. His TV is the easy part.

It’s hard for Dante to watch Tyson pull memory after memory from a box, even if it’s something as simple as a t-shirt he’d forgotten he left behind. One in particular catches his eye. He knows it’s his, or was, but Tyson doesn’t bat an eye.

He thinks about saying something or maybe just reclaiming his lost shirt as his own again but then it’s tucked away inside of Tyson’s new dresser and he can’t bare to take it back. It probably smells like Tyson, anyway. In the end, Dante decides that taking it would be worse.

The food arrives shortly after and they sit on Tyson’s bed, divvying up pieces of sushi. Tyson says it’s easier this way— he doesn’t have a table— so that way they can be sure to get a variety.

Dante purchases his plane ticket for the first flight out the next morning because dragging out the day will only make it all that much harder. He swipes through his short itinerary as Tyson laughs softly at something on the television. It’s a cat food commercial, he thinks— all that Dante sees when he lifts his head is Tyson and his smile in full force. “What’s so funny?”

“You missed the joke,” Tyson says, laughing with a shake of his head. He pops a piece of sushi into his mouth, continuing, muffled. “It’s not as funny if I explain it to you.”

“That’s okay.” He looks at his phone again. If Dante knows anything all too well, it’s a good joke— confident he’s the punchline of the biggest one yet. In less than twelve hours he’ll be gone. “I’m sure it’ll get overplayed 500 times by the time the year ends.”

“Yeah,” Tyson smiles, focus shifting back to the TV. He must have already forgotten about the pier. It’s probably the best Dante’s seem him look in awhile.

“Hey Tys?” Dante closes his itinerary, his email— everything that reminds him he’s the one who’s going to be walking away this time. He can see how easily Tyson turns back to him, smile never once breaking.

“Dante?” Tyson looks gentle— fragile even, like he could easily break. Except Dante knows better, that familiar sting reminding him that _he’s_ the broken one. Tyson’s strong, Tyson’s moved on.

He looks over his shoulder, out the window, catching a glimpse of the white sand. The way it meets the ocean is beautiful. There’s no denying that. “Did you find everything you’ve been looking for?”

“Yes.” Tyson doesn’t even hesitate.

“Oh,” Dante whispers. “Well I hope Santa Monica’s good to you. I know how important this is.”

“I mean.” Tyson grabs the remote, shutting off the television. “It’s been good.”

“Good, that’s good,” Dante says, mentally kicking himself for sounding so redundant. The only _actual_ good thing about it is how it makes Tyson laugh.

“So you leave tomorrow?” Tyson rustles with the empty sushi containers, moving them into the takeaway bag. That’s when they both realize his place doesn’t have a garbage can, either.

“Bright and early,” Dante says, briefly considering changing to a later flight.

“Okay.” And just like that, Tyson rises back to his feet, continuing to unpack.

Dante helps him this time, trying not to overthink things when he pulls out the tie Tyson wore to their wedding. It’s another detail that Tyson’s probably already forgotten. He quickly puts the tie with the rest of the others and hides them in the back of a single drawer. Dante’s not sure why Tyson would _need_ a tie, anyway.

When they’re finished, Tyson yawns, arms stretched out over his head.

Neither make a move for the couch. They both climb into bed, perhaps in silent agreement that it’s okay to pretend the only option is to sleep together. It’s their last night after all.

“Thanks for the help,” Tyson says softly, the only remaining light coming in from outside. Dante thinks it’s the moon, though it’s hard to tell through the slotted blinds.

He’s exhausted both emotionally and physically by the time his head hits the pillow. Dante knows rest will be beneficial— that while sleep won’t make the morning suck any less, it’ll at least help keep his emotions in check.

And then Tyson, like always, snuggles into his side. “Goodnight, Dante.”

Dante means to say goodnight and leave it at that. He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sounding something like a choked back sob when he says the inevitable, “I love you.” 

“Hey,” Tyson whispers, shifting beneath the sheets. His hand comes up, resting against Dante’s cheek. It’s warm but doesn’t quite soothe anything. His heart’s still broken.

“I’m sorry.” Dante turns his face slightly, taking in as much of Tyson’s touch as he’s allowed.

“I love you too,” Tyson says, sounding slightly more put together.

“You belong to California now.” Dante doesn’t mean to sound bitter about it. He has no real issues with California. California won’t run away when things get weird. “I think you’ll be really happy here.”

“Maybe.” Tyson exhales. “But you’ve always been my first love.”

Dante’s stupid. This he knows. It’s why he kisses Tyson over and over because it’s a better option than breaking down— because Tyson kisses him back and only pulls away to let Dante remove his shirt.

It’s why they fall asleep wrapped up in one another, Dante holding Tyson as close as he can. It’s why Dante’s last thoughts before drifting off aren’t terrible, because even if they’ve screwed it all up, Tyson still loves him. And he loves Tyson.

..

The birds chirping don’t wake Tyson up, though they’re partially why Dante’s been up long before the slow rising sun turned the room a soft, hazy orange. Dante doesn’t wake Tyson up, either, content in watching the rise and fall of his chest. Who knows how much longer he’ll have the privilege.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and Tyson stirs slightly, eyes blinking open.

“Morning,” Tyson manages between yawns, stretching his arms up over his head. Even his hair looks golden beneath the warm light.

“Morning,” Dante repeats with a nod. 

“How long have you been awake?” Tyson rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He smiles, soft and sleepy, curls falling over his forehead.

_Long enough_, Dante thinks, not wanting to admit he’d spent most of his time watching Tyson sleep. “Awhile,” he says, tugging at the corner of the blanket. When Dante sits up, Tyson follows.

“Do you want me to drive you to the airport?” Tyson runs a hand through his mussed up hair and reaches for his sweatpants. Yawning, he pulls them on. 

Dante hadn’t thought that far ahead. “No, that’s okay. I can call an Uber.”

“Oh.” Tyson’s face falls. “Are you sure?”

Of course Dante wants to take in as much of Tyson as he can but knows saying goodbye in a crowded airport is even worse than doing it now. He’d much rather rip off the metaphorical band-aid and toss it away before it hurts _too_ much. Dante just shakes his head, smiling after he pulls a hoodie over his head. “It’s okay. Get some more sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” Tyson circles the bed, picking his t-shirt up off of the floor. “I owe you anyway.”

“No,” Dante says, stuffing his belongings into his bag. “I wanted to do this, remember?”

“I know, but…” Tyson chews on his bottom lip. “This isn’t easy.”

“It never is,” Dante whispers, turning to look at Tyson. In an instant, he’s transported back to that Motel 6, unable to forget the way Tyson’s arms felt around his neck— how his laugh, soft and mischievous against his lips made getting married seem _worth it_, even if it meant pissing off their families.

When he turns around, Tyson is right there. “For the record, you were a really good husband.”

“Thanks,” Dante says, laugh coming out strained. _Thanks?_ he thinks. Tyson just took the wind from out of him and all he can say is fucking_ thanks_.

It doesn’t take long for Dante to finish packing. He didn’t bring much. He’s leaving so much more behind. He takes one last quick look around the condo and one longer one at Tyson. Dante expects the hug from Tyson and accepts it graciously, pulling him tightly to his chest.

What he doesn’t anticipate is the way Tyson sinks against him and buries his face into his neck.

“Tys.” He presses a palm to Tyson’s back, rubbing gently. Ironic, he thinks, that he’s the one doing the comforting. “I’ll call you when I land, okay?”

“Promise,” Tyson mumbles, not lifting his head.

“Promise,” Dante repeats.

It takes some time, but Tyson eventually lifts his head, rubbing at his watery eyes. It’s almost unfair how sad he looks when Dante heads to the door. It was Tyson who made this choice, after all.

..

He manages to keep it together through their goodbyes and even long after Tyson’s out of sight. Even in the Uber, he’s calm. It isn’t until the plane ascends that his heart, heavy, gives in.

Dante wipes his eyes quickly. He doesn’t want to cry while sitting next to someone’s grandmother. She’s sweet, though, and silently passes him a tissue. When the stewardess comes around and serves the standard drink and snack, she gives him her cookie. 

“Thanks,” Dante says quietly. He doesn’t open it. Not yet.

“You look like you could use an extra cookie,” she says, lowering her magazine. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Dante glances out the window and then back to the woman. “Not really, sorry.”

“I’m on my way to visit my daughter.” She smiles, eyes crinkling and Dante pictures his own nonna— how she’s anticipating his return, ready to comfort him with Sunday sauce and extra treats.

“Yeah?” Dante unwraps the cookie, taking a bite. “I bet you can’t wait to see her.”

“More than anything,” she says. “It’s been twenty years.”

Dante coughs. “What?”

“Sometimes people fall out of touch.” She’s soft and sincere when she says it, though Dante can’t comprehend why. He wants to ask more— how someone can go so long without speaking to someone they love. 

It makes him think about Tyson. “Does she know you’re coming?” 

“No.” She smiles, sadly. “Her husband does. She’s been sick for awhile. But I’m sure she’ll be happy to see me.”

Dante doesn’t know her but his heart aches. He learns that her name is Doris and that despite her best efforts, she and her daughter didn’t always see eye to eye. She loved her daughter through and through and hoped one day they could reconnect. He hates that it’s now— that it’s likely too late for a happy reunion.

“I just helped a friend move out to Santa Monica.” He picks at a loose string along the hem of his hoodie. “We used to be close.” Close is an understatement, he thinks.

“That was nice of you.” Doris pats his arm. “You seem like such a nice boy.”

“Yeah,” Dante says. “Thanks.”

“Every single day is a new opportunity to reconnect,” Doris says, adjusting her bifocals. “Make sure you remind your friend how special they are. Distance means little when the relationship is a strong one.”

Dante nods. Were he and Tyson strong? Are they still?

He’s quiet when the plane descends only speaking again to thank her and wish her the best of luck. It’s reciprocated with a genuine, unbiased hug he didn’t realize he needed and some well wishes of his own.

By the time he’s home his heart aches— for Doris, for Tyson, for _himself_. He doesn’t avoid his family. He allows his mother to pull him into a hug and catches up with his dad for a good hour over lunch. He even shoots Tyson the promised _I’m home_ text before tucking his phone away, not quite ready for his response just yet.

Stomachs full, his family lovingly dismisses him for the rest of the day. Even Sophia, though concerned, leaves him be in favor of washing the dishes.

Dante tosses his suitcases in the corner of his room. He doesn’t care to unpack.

He doesn’t look at his phone again until he’s comfortable in his own bed. There’s a text from Mat that’s surprisingly sincere, offering an ear. Dante’s sure he’s just in it for the gossip but it’s still nice to know he has someone to turn to.

Then he looks for Tyson’s response except… 

It never came.

..

“Dante, get down here!”

He doesn’t want to get out of bed. It’s only 5 PM and though he can smell a fresh pot of sauce, he knows his mother only made his favorite to keep him from moping. Yawning, he closes his eyes again. Just five more minutes.

“_Dante_!” His mother repeats his name. Louder.

“Okay, okay,” he answers back, mumbling to himself. He’s drowsy from his nap and when he walks, it feels more like floating. Dante’s family is chatting downstairs but it all stops the minute he steps foot in the kitchen. 

Sophia gets to him first, pulling him into a hug.

“I was just taking a nap,” Dante says, returning a half-hearted hug. His mother is already dishing breaded chicken filets onto a serving tray while his father pours several glasses of wine.

“Come with me,” Sophia whispers, tugging Dante towards the back door before he can refuse. 

“Soph,” Dante knows their mother told her not to pry. He also knows it isn’t the Fabbro way _not_ to. He can’t help but shake his head when she looks at him, concerned. “Mom’s not going to be happy with you.”

“You’re my baby brother,” she says matter-of-factly, “she knows I’m doing this.”

Dante raises an eyebrow. “This? What exactly is this?” He’s not so sure he likes the sound of that, especially when it’s followed by a lighthearted laugh.

“Remember when we were kids and mama only let us go to the park if I promised to look after you?” Sophia smiles. 

“Yeah,” Dante says with a fond smile. He remembers it well. “I jumped off of the swing, skinned my knee and mom freaked. Wouldn’t let us go off alone for weeks. You were a terrible babysitter.”

“Hey!” Sophia nudges him. “But do you remember what happened after that?”

Dante shakes his head. He doesn’t. He was young and maybe a little too rowdy— energy unmatched.

“You took the heat.” She grins. “Told mama that I tried my best to watch you but you didn’t listen.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Dante snorts.

“You’ve always been selfless and a protector, Dante. It’s in your nature. Always putting others first.” Sophia flips her hair back, looking over his shoulder. “I think it’s time you do something for yourself for once.”

“What do you mean?” Dante follows her line of sight and turns around to find someone else has been standing there.

Tyson.

“Tys?” Dante blinks. It isn’t his mind playing tricks on him.

“Dante,” Tyson says, taking a reluctant step forward.

“I— but— Santa Monica?” He turns to Sophia, then Tyson, then Sophia once again. “Did you know about this?”

“I’ll never tell,” she says, kissing the side of his head. With that, she gives his arm a squeeze before disappearing back inside.

“You were right.” Tyson takes another step. “I found exactly what I needed in Santa Monica.”

Dante’s heart drops. Of course he did. It still doesn’t account for why he’s standing in his parents’ yard. “Then what are you doing here?”

“That’s kind of it.” Tyson fidgets nervously and this time, Dante steps towards him.

“Tyson.” He reaches out, brushing Tyson’s forearm. He’s expecting paperwork to finalize their separation and more heartbreak than his chest can carry. He also expects Tyson to do what he needs to in order to move on and Dante, selfless as always, will give it to him, anticipating he’ll be the one to drive Tyson to the airport, watching him ship himself straight back to California. 

“What I needed _was_ in Santa Monica,” he says, looking up at Dante. “But it’s not there anymore.”

Dante furrows his brows. He doesn’t think he’s taken anything of Tyson’s back with him and can’t quite piece together what it is he’s missing— not until Tyson leans in, kissing him with all of his might.

..

Dinner, as always, is loud and full of good food and with greater company. Tyson fits in seamlessly, like he has for so many meals in the past. There’s no invasive questions, no mentions of marriage or California— just a room filled with love that leaves Dante feeling thankful.

Afterwards, he’s asked to play guitar and though reluctantly, he brings it out.

Dante’s fingers glide over the guitar strings effortlessly and though it’s a little out of tune and, quite frankly sounds a bit like shit to the trained ear, he doesn’t stop. Tyson’s swaying, smiling, mouthing along to the lyrics that Dante didn’t even know he’d memorized. He’ll tune the guitar later, once Tyson’s asleep. 

“Have you learned anything new?” Tyson asks once the song ends. Dante shakes his head. What he doesn’t tell Tyson is that he stopped playing the day they broke up.

He sets the guitar aside and just like that, Tyson moves across the couch and into his arms. Dante compares it to playing the guitar— picking up where he left off— remembering every learned chord. Tyson settles into his side in that exact same way he always has, as if there was never a gap in time where they didn’t fit together as so.

“I haven’t wanted to learn anything new,” Dante says. His voice, like the untuned guitar sounds off when he speaks, though maybe it’s another thing that only he notices. “No reason.”

“Dante.” Tyson turns his face up towards him. “You didn’t stop because of me, did you?”

“No,” Dante lies, quickly correcting himself. “Not entirely, but mostly, yeah.”

“Dante,” Tyson repeats, sitting up, palms cupping the sides of his face. “You were good. Like really, _really_ good.”

“So were we.” Dante looks over at the guitar. It’ll sound better once it’s tuned. If and when he decides the time is right. For now, time willing, he’s content with soaking up as much of Tyson as possible.

“Yeah,” Tyson says, sliding a hand down to rest at Dante’s shoulder. “But we could be better.”

Dante laughs because if he doesn’t, it’s possible he just might cry. His parents take that as a cue to make themselves sparse and Dante’s sisters, though curious and a little more slow moving, make their way out as well.

“Do you want to be?” Dante finally asks once they’re alone.

“More than anything,” Tyson admits, reaching for Dante’s hand. “Do you?”

Their fingers entwine and this time, when they kiss, Dante _isn’t_ transported back to their wedding night. He’s present and probably the happiest he’s been in months. He knows there’s still plenty of things they need to talk about and even more they need to work through. They’re things he pushes aside for the time being.

For now, he’s content with everything he has.

“I just have one question,” Dante asks when they’re able to pry themselves apart long enough for him to speak.

Tyson hasn’t let go of his hand. Squeezing it, he asks, “yeah?”

“How much time do we have before your flight back to California?” Dante bites his lip, hoping he can squeeze out a week at the very least.

“In three days,” Tyson mumbles and Dante can feel his chest tighten. “After my birthday. But.”

“But?” Dante repeats. Three days is better than nothing.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go on another road trip with me,” Tyson says with a half-smile.

Dante thinks about the hotels, the tourist traps, the fast food and all of the miles they put behind him. He also thinks about all of the anguish and how maybe it was meant to make him stronger. Then he thinks about Tyson leaving— without him. It’s not an option.

Taking a deep breath, Dante’s all in. “Where are we going?”

“I heard Vancouver is a nice place to settle down,” Tyson says, his smile bigger than ever.

..

**06:2023**

Tyson kisses him slow and sweet and when he leans in for another, he misses, only it must be purposeful. It’s something he’s done countless times before, brushing a light kiss over what Dante knows is the birthmark beneath his eye.

“Tys, c’mon.” He laughs, fingers getting caught up in the back of Tyson’s curls. “We have dinner reservations in an hour.”

“So,” Tyson says, kissing along his jaw. “Your dad’ll hold the table.”

Dante shivers and as tempting as it is, he knows better. “He’ll text me seven times then call me nine more and you know it.”

“Text him your order.” Tyson grins, moving in for another kiss.

As cliche as it may be, Dante’s heart flutters when they kiss. It doesn’t take long to re-learn Tyson— to kiss him just so in that way that still makes him melt every time. Tyson kisses him over and over, alternating between soft, gentle kisses to ones that are rougher, leaving him chasing his breath.

“_Tyson_.” Dante manages when the last kiss breaks, crossing his arms. He’s going to stand firm. He is _not_ going to be late to his birthday dinner.

“_Dante_.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

They’re late to Dante’s birthday dinner.

Dante smooths down the front of his button up when they walk in but it doesn’t stop Sophia from shooting him a knowing smirk. His parents, luckily, seem none the wiser. His mother is already hugging Tyson, catching up like she hadn’t seen him just the other day.

Marriage is good— _better_ than good and both of them find it hard to believe it’s been six years— five-ish if you count the road bump they’ve smoothed out since.

When Dante slips into a vacant chair and his mother is _still_ fussing over Tyson, he laughs. “I know you love Tyson, I do too, but it’s _my_ birthday.”

“Alright,” his dad says, trying his best to hide his amusement when the waitress makes her way to their table. “Now that we’re all here, we can order.”

Dinner is enjoyable and Dante thinks that’s the end of it. Then the larger, chocolate cake comes out. His eyes light up, as do Tyson’s, exchanging glances of _did you know?_ And _no, did you_?

“Happy birthday,” Tyson sing-songs and quite frankly, it’s enough to make Dante cringe. He makes sure he does simply out of principle. What follows is something he can’t really help— a smile so soft, so _fond_ that Tyson actually does stop.

“Thank you,” Dante says, leaning over to blow out his candles. When he comes back up, he’s still smiling. 

“So what did you wish for?” Tyson leans forward, scooping a bit of frosting from one corner. Sophia laughs and Dante knows it’s because those types of shenanigans get your hand slapped away at home. But Tyson is different. Tyson is special. 

“I can’t tell you.” Dante eyes the frosting but stops when his mother eyes him, crossing his arms with a grin. “It won’t come true if I tell.”

What he doesn’t tell Tyson is that it already has.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow my twitter @ nhlfabbro.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] we don't have to fix each other (come over)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290864) by [somehowunbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken)


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